


Glad I Got the Chance to Say

by kosame



Category: Shortland Street
Genre: Anxiety, Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Asexy April, F/M, Gen, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Post-Canon, Queerplatonic Relationships, nonromantic relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-04-29 20:28:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14480580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kosame/pseuds/kosame
Summary: New heart, new life.





	Glad I Got the Chance to Say

**Author's Note:**

> This is a bit of a love letter to the first show that truly showed me someone like me, facing struggles and dilemmas like mine. Shortland Street, you broke my heart, but then you un-broke it and told me I could find what I was looking for in relationships. Now, as I embark on finally doing that, it seemed appropriate to revisit this show that gave me so much hope and lean on it again to deal with the actual issues in my life.
> 
> Or maybe I just need to justify the weeks I spent skimming 750 episodes for any mention of Gerald. Who could say?
> 
> WARNING: This is POST-CANON so spoilers abound (and if you never saw the 2012 return episodes, I highly recommend you watch the [few minutes of them there are on YouTube](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VLiKkPeis-k), as this directly follows it). Also, I did my best, but I am sure some Americanisms survive...

There’s a thin layer of dust and the air smells stale when they finally return home, nearly two months delayed. Libby has to go back to work the very next day before their unpaid leave ruptures the bank entirely without any time to adjust to the time or temperature differences. She’s going to catch a cold, Gerald thinks, which would ordinarily be bad enough, but he doesn’t particularly want to sneeze so soon after having his chest cut completely open. They told him his breastbone was completely healed, but he wasn’t completely convinced.

A slam jerks him out of his reverie. Libby is throwing open the windows to get some air in, smiling and chattering about making appointments with a local cardiologist and all the other things they have to do. Gerald’s fingers don’t even itch to wipe away the dust, and he thinks, he must be exhausted.

*

Gerald wakes up, blinking against the inconsiderate summer sun, disorientated and to an empty space beside him. He and Libby have slept in the same bed for years now, partially to lend credence to the fiction of their love story and partially because a one-bedroom was all they could afford when they first arrived. Even though they both had good jobs now, they stayed in their shoebox apartment. It wasn’t really a conscious choice so much as falling into a habit and staying there because it was comfortable and the inertia was too much to overcome.

He lets himself lay there, thinking about nothing in particular. He tries to feel himself in the moment. The counselors at the recovery center had said it to him over and over, to be present now and not worry about the future; easy enough for them to say.

It feels surreal, like everything had happened to someone else or in another country. Now, he reckons, it actually _had_ happened in another country, all of it. One month more of leave for him, and he’d be back at the same-old job, in the same-old house, the same-old everyday of teasing Libby about the same-old personality conflicts at her work and packing them the same-old sandwiches to keep the budget in line for the same-old holiday.

He closes his eyes against the weight of it all and forces in a deep breath, wishing he could turn over and curl up and go back to sleep.

*

He wakes up, and from the sun he knows it must be afternoon. He’s ravenous, but they haven’t got any food in. Libby had popped out and bought a few frozen entrees before collapsing herself the day before, but of all the ways Gerald is tired, being tired of being useless is near the top.

Getting dressed takes twice as long as usual, but at least it’s not exhausting anymore. He grabs his wallet and keys and heads to the supermarket. On the way there, he puts the windows down and turns the radio up over the sound of the wind.

*

Libby is angry when she gets home, predictably. He hadn’t even cooked dinner (even though he’d originally meant to), but from how she was carrying on, you’d think he’d decided to run a marathon instead of pick up one sack of groceries.

She lectures him as she chops the vegetables--maybe with a little less care than he’s entirely comfortable with, and he tries his hardest not to think about how easily she might catch a fingertip under the blade. 

“Why don’t you fight back!?” Libby’s voice breaks his concentration. The knife clatters against the cutting board, and Gerald is startled.

“I-- I--” he sputters, but he doesn’t have an answer.

“You’re the one who said ‘new heart, new life, for both of us’! And yet it’s like you’re not even here! This is our second chance, Gerald!” Libby looks near tears, and for the umpteenth time Gerald feels terribly guilty.

“Come here,” he says, and whispers a litany into her hair as he holds her on the couch, “You’re right, I’m sorry, you’re right.”

*

Gerald misses seeing Libby off to work again, but today he gets out of bed at a respectable hour at least. He pulls out his cleaning supplies and sets to work removing that layer of dust.

It’s usually a blessing their apartment is so small, and in a certain sense, it still is; he certainly doesn’t overexert himself. Unfortunately, this time, he’s left alone with his thoughts sooner than he would have liked.

It’s the same-old apartment. It’s the same-old marriage. They still love each other, share the same dreams, have trust and loyalty and complete honesty. The only thing that’s changed is that Libby chose him over romance once and for all. Shouldn’t he feel better, more secure now?

*

Libby comes home from work worked up about Jessica in marketing, and when Gerald joins in on listing all the ways she’s a total cow, it feels normal. There’s only minimal tutting over his cleaning spree, and they decide to take it easy and watch a DVD they’ve had sitting next to the television since before their trip.

Gerald runs a thumb over the back of Libby’s hand as they cuddle together, but the film isn’t as good as he’d hoped. Instead, he ruminates over what he could possibly be missing. Sitting here with Libby is perfect, and he should be enjoying it, her warmth pressed against his side a contrast to the artificial chill of the air conditioning.

Her head drops onto his shoulder, and he realizes she must be more tired than she’d let on. He stops the film and sits there with her in silence.

*

Without anything left to clean, Gerald picks up the remote the next day out of desperation. He’s never going to make it through this week--let alone the next three--if he can’t figure out something productive to do with himself.

He turns on the TV and lets whatever it is play. Since he’s come in at the middle, it’s hard to follow at first, but he realizes quickly enough it’s yet another film about two people who try to keep their relationship purely physical but are increasingly obviously going to end up in love. Groaning out loud in disgust, he moves to change the channel, but stops.

He’s living this, he realizes suddenly, or maybe the opposite, but the effect is the same. He and Libby are married, but they’re friends--the best of friends. Or rather, they were. Now, they’re real.

*

When Libby gets home, Gerald is at the door, kissing her on the cheek and taking her briefcase. “Sit, sit,” he orders fussily, leading her over to the table. “Dinner’s almost ready, but you can make a start on the nibbles.”

“What?” Libby asks, almost exasperated. “Please tell me you did not make us a three-course meal. You’re meant to be resting!”

“I did not, I bought dessert. And I splurged for the already prepared fish even if ordinarily it’s a complete waste of money and I’m perfectly capable of stuffing it myself.”

“Gerald--” Libby starts, but he shushes her, pulling off his apron and sliding into the chair next to hers and taking her hand. She lets them be quiet for a moment, and he gathers his courage.

“I always thought I wanted romance, too, but I didn’t.” His eyes are on their joined hands, but her sharp intake of breath tell him she’s concerned. “When we got married, I told myself not to get too attached because you would end up being swept off your feet by someone, and that I shouldn’t settle either, even if there wasn’t much hope for me. So I kept part of my heart walled off from you.”

“And then, after the transplant, I realized somehow you’d got in there anyway. You’d always been in there.” He forces his eyes up to look at her, and when he does, he can’t help but lift his other hand to try and smooth away some of the worry written there. “You saying that what we have is real scared me because I couldn’t dare to let myself believe it. And now I've been wasting our second chance. I’m an idiot. I’m sorry.”

Libby had raised her other hand over her mouth, and she might have been laughing or crying, but regardless she pulled him forward into an embrace. “There’s nothing to forgive. I’m just glad you’re here.”

“Me too.”


End file.
